It’s been a long time since I’ve written a blog post.
A lot has happened in my personal life over the past year and a half, and I’ve been processing much of it through my art rather than words. But lately, I’ve felt the need to slow down and put some of it into language again.
One of the biggest things I’ve been working through is grief — not the kind that comes from losing a person, but something quieter. More internal. The grief of outgrowing a version of yourself.
What’s been surprising is realizing, in hindsight, that this is what I was moving through without fully recognizing it at the time.
Not obvious grief. Not something I had language for while I was inside of it. Just a slow sense of heaviness, misalignment, and feeling slightly detached from who I was trying to be.
I think this is something that doesn’t get talked about enough — how growth can feel like loss. How changing can feel like you’re mourning something that is still technically present, just no longer aligned with who you are becoming.
And I’ve realized this isn’t the first time it’s happened. There have been multiple seasons in my life where I was essentially grieving an identity I hadn’t yet let go of. And I didn’t recognize it as grief in real time. I just felt stuck, uncertain, and emotionally foggy — like I was in between versions of myself.
It almost feels like something that sits between grief and depression. Not fully one or the other, but a transitional space where nothing quite feels solid yet.
And we don’t really talk about that space.
We talk about growth like it’s clean and empowering, like it’s a decision you make and suddenly everything aligns. But in reality, letting go of an identity can be disorienting — even when it’s the right thing. Even when it’s chosen.
For a long time, I was balancing two identities. One was my art, my creative life, and everything I was building there. The other was a job that I had deeply tied to who I believed I was and what I thought I was supposed to do.
If you had asked me a year ago whether I would leave that job, I would have said absolutely not. I would have told you I could do both indefinitely. That I had to. That it was part of my identity.
But looking back now, I can see how much of that was fear disguised as commitment.
Over time, that job became increasingly stressful and emotionally draining. It reached a point where it wasn’t just challenging — it was heavy. It stopped feeling aligned. It stopped feeling sustainable. And yet I still held onto it because it was familiar. Because it was part of my identity.
At the same time, I was quietly changing.
My art became the place where I processed everything I couldn’t fully say out loud. I found myself repeatedly drawn to florals and botanicals. Anytime I tried to paint something outside of that, I would feel tense, rushed, almost resistant — like my system was telling me to come back to something simpler, softer, more grounding.
So I listened.
I stopped forcing myself into directions that didn’t feel natural and just let myself paint what I needed to paint. Flowers became less of a subject and more of a form of regulation. A way to breathe again. A way to stop spiraling in stress and just exist in something calming.
And slowly, things started to shift.
The clarity didn’t come all at once, but the truth became harder to ignore: I didn’t want to split myself anymore. I didn’t want to keep holding space for something that was depleting me while trying to build something that was calling me forward.
Eventually, the opportunity came for me to step away from my job. And I took it.
What surprised me most wasn’t just the decision itself — it was what happened after. The moment I said I was done, it felt like something unlocked. Not because everything suddenly became easy, but because I could finally see again. Possibilities I couldn’t see before started to appear. Ideas felt less blocked. Energy returned in a way I hadn’t realized I had been missing.
I had spent so long believing I had no other options. But the truth was, I was just too inside it to see them.
Looking back, I can also see how much timing mattered — but not in the passive way people often describe. It wasn’t just “waiting for the right moment.” It was also doing the internal work to be ready when the moment arrived. Working through fear. Building trust in myself. Learning to tolerate uncertainty without abandoning myself in the process.
And underneath all of it, I kept creating.
Even when I was stressed. Even when I felt stuck. Even when I didn’t fully understand what was happening. My art stayed consistent in a way my life didn’t. It became the one place where I could translate what I was going through without needing to fully explain it.
If there’s something I’ve learned through this, it’s that we don’t always recognize change while we’re in it. Sometimes it looks like repetition. Sometimes it looks like confusion. Sometimes it looks like you’re just getting through it.
But underneath that, things are shifting.
And eventually, if you keep listening closely enough to yourself, you reach a point where something inside you stops negotiating.
For anyone going through something similar — whether it’s a job, an identity, or a version of yourself you’re outgrowing — I don’t think the answer is to force clarity or rush the process.
But I do think it matters to pay attention.
Pay attention to what drains you. Pay attention to what brings you back to yourself. Pay attention to what you keep returning to, even when nothing else makes sense.
And just as importantly, be mindful of who you share your process with.
One of the more unexpected lessons for me was realizing that not everyone can hold your uncertainty without trying to fix it. Some people will project their own fears, scarcity, or limitations onto your situation, even if they mean well. And while support matters, discernment matters too.
I had to learn that it’s okay not to tell everyone everything. It’s okay to protect certain parts of your process while you’re still in it. It’s okay to find a smaller circle of people who can simply listen without needing to reshape your path.
What I needed most wasn’t advice. It was space.
Space to figure it out. Space to change. Space to become someone I hadn’t fully met yet.
And now, on the other side of this decision, I don’t feel like I’ve arrived somewhere final. But I do feel more aligned than I have in a long time.
More honest.
More open.
And more willing to see where this version of me is actually meant to go next.
